


Means to an End

by Ashentongue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baby Emissary Stiles, First Time, M/M, Mention of Off-Screen Character Death, Oral Sex, Run-On Sentences, Scent Marking, Werewolf Courting, slightly morbid, the ending is happy-ish but this isn't a fluff fic, unless you enjoy addams family type of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashentongue/pseuds/Ashentongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my God, Peter, what’s wrong with you, I thought you were a—” Stiles stops abruptly, gaze flicking from the box to Peter.</p><p>I thought you were a murderer. </p><p>Oh. There’s a human heart in his living room and Peter is back and Stiles feels so stupid right now because this is exactly the kind of situation where Occam’s razor works just fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Means to an End

**Author's Note:**

> This is a belated Christmas present fic. There's a little bit of dubious consent-ish touching at the start (thanks, Peter), but everything turns out consensual. If you need to know who the off-screen death is before you read, check the end notes!

The Stilinski house is quiet and dark when Stiles comes down the stairs from his room to grab a drink. His dad is at the station, one last night shift before he comes home for a few days for the holidays.

 

To Stiles, Christmas feels bittersweet after his mom’s death. His dad brought in a tree, but Stiles put it up while the Sheriff was gone, decorating it alone in the silence of the night. It’s something he used to do with mom. He suspects dad still can’t stand to watch the process of his son doing it alone.

 

Stiles understands the sadness in his dad’s eyes all too well, he feels it too, but he doesn’t want to shove away everything that reminds him of mom. Claudia had loved the tree and the strings of pale gold lights, so Stiles puts them up every year but only for a few days instead of decorating earlier in December like he’d done with mom.

 

It feels like a good compromise between misery and remembrance. Stiles doesn’t want to see his dad crawl into a bottle during the holidays when he’s supposed to relax a little.

 

Padding into the kitchen, he pulls out the OJ and a glass, thinking about how calm everything seems. Especially compared to all the crazy shit that had happened in the past few years. He wonders if supernatural creatures care for human holidays, or if they just don’t bother to go out to eat people when everybody is holed up indoors enjoying the season’s festivities. Briefly he imagines a wendigo Christmas, bloody stockings filled with human-fillets hanging at the mantelpiece.

 

He blames that stray image when his mind wanders to darker waters again. Some hadn’t lived to see another Christmas and the thought makes Stiles’s heart clench slightly. Erica, with her red lipstick smirk and ferocious werewolf makeover, is gone. No more Boyd to bribe for favors, either.

 

Stiles refuses to think about Allison. He still has dreams where her blood stains his hands, dreams where the nogitsune is still in him.

 

Aiden … okay, Stiles honestly doesn’t give a shit about losing Aiden. The twins had been there when Derek was forced to kill Boyd and somewhere along the way he’d started to resent things that caused an increase in Derek’s already ridiculous levels of guilt. Derek is sort of a friend now and Stiles thinks Derek feels the same because there’s been a large decrease in events where he gets slammed into things.

 

It feels like a Stockholm Syndrome type of friendship, but Stiles will take what he can get when it comes to emotionally constipated werewolves. One day Derek will evolve into a real boy, and when that day comes Stiles and Scott will feel like proud parents.

 

Thinking about one Hale inevitably draws his mind towards another. A werewolf-shaped chunk of sass is currently missing from all their lives, and while most of the others consider that a good thing, Stiles isn’t so sure anymore.

 

Everything regarding Peter Hale is always complicated. A month into the oldest living Hale’s vanishing act, nobody had even noticed. Two months later though, Stiles had eyed Derek and asked about everybody's least favorite creeper uncle, claiming his system had gotten used to a certain dosage of sociopath-sass that he was no longer getting.

 

All he had gotten in response was a constipated look, but Stiles has learned how to interpret Derek’s looks with reasonable reliability by now. What’s that, Lassie? You’ve no idea where your uncle is but you think he probably fell down a well?

 

It’s honestly kind of disturbing what Stiles thinks he can see in Derek’s eyebrows and pinched looks. He has started having conversations with them. It isn’t healthy.

 

Turning to lean against the counter, Stiles drinks his juice and thinks about the last time he’d seen Peter. It was at Derek’s loft and he was alone, waiting for the others to get back from tracking a stray, feral wendigo. Peter had showed up unannounced and stayed there far longer than he usually did, offering no meaningful information despite the fact that he always knew something about the supernatural menace of the week.

 

It hadn’t been the first time Peter came around just to lounge in Stiles’s general vicinity. Stiles wondered if the werewolf had been trying to desensitize him so he wouldn’t notice the inevitable claw to the back.

 

No back-clawing had happened that night. Instead, right around the time Stiles received a text from Scott saying they were heading back, Peter leaned over the back of the sofa and hovered over Stiles, audibly drawing in air. Stiles remembers waving his hand up at Peter distractedly like he was chasing away a fly, protesting vaguely and calling Peter creepy without any real fire behind it.

 

He remembers the smile in Peter’s voice when the werewolf spoke, “Wait for me, Stiles.”

 

Stiles had been distracted by the phone and made some sort of agreeing noises, he couldn’t recall exactly, and when he’d finally glanced up with a ‘wait, what’, Peter had been gone. And stayed gone.

 

Maybe Peter is dead. Again. It seems more likely than the werewolf having gone to Hawaii to sip mai tais and make inappropriately sexual and vaguely serial killer-ish comments at suffering hotel staff.

 

Nobody snarks with Stiles the way Peter did and he actually misses a good verbal sparring session. Some waiter off in a sunny resort getting the sass instead of him makes him very irrationally jealous for one brief moment.

 

Peter is clearly dead. He’d gone and pissed off something bigger and fangier and had been too proud to come to the pack for help. And Stiles most definitely does not miss Peter, not one bit, because Peter has a horrible personality and probably had been planning something evil anyway and Stiles would’ve had to set him on fire again.

 

He’s still working on making something spontaneously combust via magic. Deaton refuses to tell him if it’s even possible, but he has been showing Stiles some simple rituals. Probably in hopes that it will keep Stiles from trying to do something stupid with his spark.

 

Something like trying to locate Peter using a hair he’d found in a book Peter had been reading at Derek’s loft once. The only thing that came out of that was a disturbing but brief loss of his sense of direction. He'd spent two hours wandering around in his own house, unable to find the front door.

 

He had talked to Derek about Peter again last week, jokingly saying that maybe Peter would be the werewolf that came back for Christmas. Derek hadn’t smiled or looked hopeful, not even on the mysterious eyebrow communication level. Stiles wanted to yell then, to ask Derek if he’d even looked for his uncle very hard, but after he had learned to read Derek, accusing him of anything always felt like kicking a man who already spent most of his time kicking himself.

 

Stiles abandons the empty glass and wanders into the living room where the tree is, lost in his thoughts for so long that it takes him embarrassingly long to notice that something is amiss. There’s a box under the tree that hadn’t been there several hours ago when Stiles finished putting up the decorations.

 

He goes absolutely still where he stands, heart pounding, because he isn’t so stupid that he might imagine having placed it there himself and forgotten about it.

 

Somebody has been in the house. Somebody who clearly wants to scare the shit out of him and he doesn’t think any of the pack would try to play a prank like this. Not near Christmas, they know better.

 

Stiles swallows, but instead of reaching for his phone and calling either his dad or Scott, he approaches the box slowly like drawn to it by an invisible magnet. The magnet’s name is curiosity, he’s pretty sure, the same morbid fascination that sent him to look for a corpse in the woods. People like him get murdered in horror movies all the time, he really should know better.

 

He stops and breathes in slowly. The box is plain red, no ribbon. Big enough to fit a soccer ball inside.

 

 _Or a severed head,_ his mind helpfully supplies almost instantly. There are small moments here and there when he wishes he had werewolf senses. He could sniff out the contents without needing to lift the lid off.

 

His hands are already doing exactly that as Stiles finds himself crouched beside the box. His mind flits through all kinds of reasons for why he should just stop right there, but he isn’t very good at listening to himself sometimes.

 

There’s red velvet inside the box. Red velvet, and an unevenly shaped reddish lump in the middle of it, placed there in the same manner a precious gem or a ring might be placed inside a jewelry box.

 

Stiles’s heart stutters when recognition sets in. He drags in a sharp breath and pushes himself up to his feet and away from the box, staggering back because that’s a heart, that’s a very real not plastic human heart right there, somebody brought him a _human_ heart in a box and it has to be some sort of a threat—

 

His back collides with something hard, firm, and _warm_. Stiles only gets a second into a scream when a hand covers his mouth and muffles the rest of his startled shriek. An arm comes around his midsection and holds him still through his flailing struggle like a band of pure iron.

 

After a hearty but ultimately very futile attempt to break free of the hold, Stiles goes still, if only to try and fool his captor into complacency. He resists the urge to whine like some panicked animal caught in a trap, but some sort of undignified noise escapes him, muffled.

 

Suddenly there’s the faint rasp of stubble against his throat, jolting him out of the scattered escape plan. A nose presses under his ear against the soft skin at his pulse, and he can hear his captor’s slow intake of breath, followed by a low, satisfied rumble.

 

 _Werewolf,_ a part of his mind notes with interest while he’s frozen in terror. He’s being scented by something that sounds very predatory and very, very pleased by its catch.

 

Stiles considers kicking his captor in the balls because that still hurts like fuck even for werewolves. Scott catching a lacrosse ball with his groin once proved that. He’d win maybe five seconds of freedom to prolong his impending doom with.

 

Whoever has him smells a bit earthy and definitely feels very muscular, something that’s hard to ignore with the way they’re pressed flush against each other. And the high body heat is definitely another clear sign of werewolfiness. Stiles’s mind is frantically going through options, but then the man speaks.

 

“Hello, Stiles,” comes the purred greeting in a voice that oozes easy confidence, a familiar, infuriating air of superiority infused into every syllable.

 

Stiles knows exactly who it is and the knowledge abruptly sends a wave of relief crashing through him. Not only is he not going to die, but months worth of tense uncertainty and fretting in secret comes to an end.

 

The hands release him and Stiles whirls around while putting a few steps between him and _Peter freaking Hale_ because yes, that’s definitely the creeper wolf standing in his dark living room, wearing one of his signature v-necks and looking impeccably groomed as usual.

 

Peter isn’t dead.

 

Stiles wants to laugh, because _Peter came back for Christmas_ and Derek is going to look so surprised because he’d been full-on mourning Peter already in his own stupid way that was probably lost on the rest of the pack because Derek’s sadface looks a lot like his usual resting bitchface.

 

But this isn’t the time to be distracted, because the momentary mental jubilation Stiles is experiencing is turning into annoyance because _what the hell_ , Peter snuck into his house to grab him from behind in the middle of the night after being totally MIA for _months_.

 

“Oh my God, Peter, what’s wrong with you, I thought you were a—” Stiles stops abruptly, gaze flicking from the box to Peter.

 

_I thought you were a murderer._

 

Oh. There’s a human heart in his living room and Peter is back and Stiles feels so _stupid_ right now because this is exactly the kind of situation where Occam’s razor works just fine.

 

Peter smiles at Stiles indulgently and steps right back into his personal space. “Do you like your present?”

 

“Do I like my— _Peter_ , you can’t just. I mean, what are you even,” Stiles sputters indignantly and he can feel heat rising to his face. His mind is trying to catch up because this reunion is an emotional rollercoaster going from alarm to relief to alarm again.

 

If he didn’t happen to be so angry, he’d probably wonder what it says about him that he isn’t reeling in absolute horror over the _human heart_ that’s still sitting in the box behind him. Ever since Scotty turned into a creature of the night, Stiles has been exposed to things that seem to be slowly chipping away at his limited reserve of give-a-fucks.

 

And that is all Peter’s fault, actually, so he goes from angry to livid. It’s almost Christmas and Peter just has to come around to start shit again like the world’s creepiest Santa Claus with his presents of blood and gore. After vanishing for months, leaving Stiles to man the research front all by himself.

 

The blood and gore are the problem, Stiles tells himself, not any lingering feelings of abandonment.

 

“You vanish for months and come waltzing back in the middle of the night! Bearing _body parts_ as gifts, what am I supposed to do with a cut out heart, oh _god_ please tell me it’s a pig’s heart at least and this is your idea of a practical joke because if that came out of a human it means you left a body somewhere and Derek is going to flip because he was really thinking your murder-rehab was going so well—”

 

Stiles is babbling and he knows it, but the disturbing part is that it isn’t because he’s scared of Peter. It’s because he’s wondering how to cover this whole thing up and pretend it didn’t happen and since when was he okay with becoming Peter’s murder accomplice?

 

Peter’s fingertips are touching his face, making Stiles jerk and bringing his attention back to the wolf.

 

“You’re adorable, but no, it isn’t from a pig.”

 

Peter’s grin shows perfect teeth with just a hint of fang. Stiles exhales a breath and frowns at him, trying to convey his utter disappointment at the fact that he’s being forced to consider hiding murder evidence right before Christmas.

 

A curved claw touches under Stiles’s chin and he shivers, mind flashing back to the lacrosse field for a brief moment. It’s eerie because he hasn’t been able to connect that Peter to this Peter for a long time now no matter how hard he tries to keep Peter’s violent revenge streak in mind.

 

Stiles opens his mouth, not sure what to say but certain that he can manage to ramble his way into some important point, but Peter interrupts him before any words come out.

 

“Don’t look so cross. It isn’t from a human either,” Peter says and lets the werewolf glow bleed into his eyes, lighting them up.

 

And they’re red. Blood red. _Alpha_ red.

 

Stiles’s breath sticks to his throat, coming out a stuttering noise, because _now_ he has the utter fear reaction he probably should have had to start with.

 

He’s fucking terrified because somewhere out there, Scott is lying dead, his _best friend_ is dead with his chest torn open and Peter is _insane_ again, not the sassy, scheming, and slightly wrong kind of insane but right back to homicidal, dead-eyed husk of a man on a mad rampage kind of insane.

 

Who is he kidding, that kind of insane was probably there all along and Stiles was just falsely attributing shreds of humanity to Peter’s behaviour because, like Scott and Derek, he wanted to _believe_.

 

Had it been somebody he didn’t even know, Stiles might have let Peter give him some no doubt creative but convincing excuse, and then he was going to let Peter get away with murder because he was secretly glad to have him back.

 

Now he feels like that kind of thinking is probably exactly why Scott is dead. He let Peter have too much, he should have seen it coming, he should have kept his guard up.

 

Stiles starts backing away from Peter, who is watching him intently. “No, no, no, you didn’t, you couldn’t have, _why_ would you—”

 

Peter looks curious before his expression settles on knowing, and then he makes a noise like he’s soothing an animal about to bolt. Stiles doesn’t know whether to run or to rush at Peter and try to kill him with his bare hands.

 

He doesn’t get to think about it for long because Peter is moving too fast, hooking an arm around Stiles’s waist and pulling him in. “Oh, Stiles. Shhh.”

 

Peter’s lips are curved into that amused smirk he always wears, but something in his gaze is intense as he runs it along Stiles’s features, drinking in the panic a moment longer.

 

“It isn’t Scott.”

 

Stiles stops in his attempt to shove away, his hands raised against Peter’s chest, fingers twisted into the soft fabric of the black v-neck.

 

“What?” The question comes out thin and shuddering, suspicious, but he’s on the verge of falling apart and he wants Peter’s words to be true.

 

“It isn’t Scott,” Peter repeats patiently, but Stiles knows Peter speaks lies like other people breathe. None of the other werewolves have ever caught Peter’s heart stutter in a lie, but that only means he feels no anxiety over it and has no guilt.

 

Apparently his mouth decided to tell Peter all that because he gets one of those raised eyebrow Hale looks, slow and assessing.

 

“Suspicious by nature, aren’t you?” Peter doesn’t sound upset, he sounds a little gleeful, and when did he get so handsy? There’s a thumb pressing into the sliver of bare skin between the hem of Stiles’s shirt and his jeans, and for a moment he’s hyper aware of the point of contact.

 

“Think about it. You saw Scott only … hmm, approximately six hours ago? I suppose that would be enough of a window of opportunity, but you’ll find that your present has been kept on ice for longer than that.”

 

Stiles isn’t about to fly into a panic anymore, but that just makes it easier for his brain to jolt in strange alarm whenever Peter moves his hands, grip looser but not quite releasing him.

 

“You stalked me today? How am I not surprised. You and Derek probably took the same creeper classes.” His tongue flicks out to wet his lips nervously, and Peter’s gaze zeroes in on the movement. “And I’m not a forensics scientist, I can’t tell how long that has been … out of its owner’s body.”

 

“Yet you identify it to be human, or very close to it,” Peter says smugly and Stiles is about to defend his browser history, but then Peter is holding a phone up to his face. His phone.

 

“Hey!” Stiles snatches it back protectively because he knows about all the bacteria on phones and doesn’t want any creeper germs added to the cocktail, thank you very much.

 

“Call Scott,” Peter suggests far too sensibly, composed as ever as he slides his hand over Stiles’s hip before stepping away, meandering around the room with his hands folded behind his back like he has every right to be there admiring the Stilinski Christmas lights.

 

Stiles tries to keep one eye on Peter while he thumbs at his phone, pressing the green icon at Scott’s name.

 

It takes his alpha several rings to pick up, and when Scott finally does, he sounds muzzy from sleep. “ _Stiles? Wha’zzit? S’thing wrong?_ ”

 

The relief turns Stiles’s legs to water and he exhales, turning the sound into a brief laugh as he lets himself slouch onto the sofa. “Oh, hey, Scott! No, nope, nothing wrong, I just, uh …”

 

He cards one hand through his hair then and glances over his shoulder, because he could say something like ‘there’s a homicidal maniac in my house, come quick’ and Scott would fly in like the furry hero he is to solve this for him.

 

“Just wondering if we’re still on for tomorrow. You know. For the movie. That you were gonna ask Kira to.”

 

There’s a slight pause from Scott and Stiles chews on his lip, wondering if his friend took this inopportune moment to develop lie-detecting skills that work over the phone. But then Scott laughs a bit, sounding too asleep to catch onto anything. “ _Yeah, dude. I told you she said yes. We’ll meet you there. And you should go to bed, Stiles … s’way late.”_

 

“Ah, huh, look at that! Yep, yes is most definitely is late, didn’t even notice. Got caught up doing research, you know me,” Stiles babbles through, listening to Scott make a muffled ‘mmhm’ -noise. “Thanks, Scotty.”

 

He lets his best friend go back to sleep none the wiser. If he tells Scott that Peter is back and an alpha again, he’ll probably come tearing in with Derek, and for some reason Stiles wants to deal with Peter himself before everything regresses into an alpha pissing contest. It just isn’t the season for two alphas to get their egos all over his front lawn.

 

“You didn’t tell him about me,” Peter notes and Stiles jumps because somehow the wolf made it over to stand right behind the sofa without making a sound.

 

“Fuck! Don’t do that!” He gets up, whirling around to glare. Peter’s intense stare turns into another amused smirk as the older man slowly circles around the piece of furniture to approach Stiles again.

 

“I can think of other things to do instead.”

 

Stiles’s brain flounders and his mouth opens and closes. It isn’t the first time Peter has gotten flirty with him, but it is the first time the wolf’s gaze has gotten this intense, measuring Stiles’s body up and down, piercing even without the red glow.

 

It makes something hot coil at the pit of Stiles’s stomach, and Peter’s nostrils flare slightly.

 

“Hey, no, none of that until you tell me exactly whose powers you stole,” Stiles warns hastily, holding a finger up in threat and wondering if he should retrieve the mountain ash he hid in a jar in one of the kitchen cupboards.

 

Peter’s eyebrows twitch, but he stops approaching Stiles directly, circling around him instead and doesn’t that make Stiles feel like tasty prey. “Does that mean you’ll let me proceed with other things if I tell you?”

 

“That’s—” Stiles’s ears burn. “Not what I meant.”

 

“Hmm.” Peter’s smirk should be illegal. It’s both aggravating and incredibly hot in ways Stiles will never admit out loud. “So I should tell you for free? Doesn’t sound like a good trade to me, Stiles. You can do better.”

 

“Chris Argent is in town, I hear his wolfsbane bullets can do better,” Stiles threatens without thinking because his mouth currently isn’t connected to his survival instincts.

 

Peter isn’t smirking anymore, his eyes dark as he walks towards Stiles and physically pushes him to the wall to cage him between his stupid muscular werewolf arms.

 

“How about,” Peter says, and his breath is hot against Stiles’s cheek, “I give you a hint, and you use that brilliant mind of yours to figure it out.”

 

It really shouldn’t feel nice to receive a compliment under these circumstances. Peter’s words are probably more a veiled threat than praise, but months of research accompanied by Peter’s attention and occasional naked admiration have instilled some kind of a Pavlovian response in Stiles’s attention-starved brain.

 

Which is why he flushes, simply says, “Okay,” and waits for Peter to go on, trying to keep his eyes from sliding down to the wolf’s visible collar bones.

 

Peter looks entirely too pleased with himself, and he isn’t preventing his own gaze from sliding down to Stiles’s mouth as he leans casually against the wall with one hand and uses the other to brush the pad of his thumb over a mole on Stiles’s cheek.

 

“It’s somebody you know, but you didn’t like him very much. In fact … you told me once that we should have killed him. I agreed.”

 

Stiles stops thinking about their proximity and _bad touch_ as his mind instantly recalls what Peter is referring to.

 

Scott believes in second chances, it’s one of the reasons why Stiles treasures his best friend. Scott pulled him away from the shadow of the demon fox, Scott forgave him because he doesn’t believe the darkness to be a part of Stiles.

 

Scott is wrong, but Stiles can’t bear to tell his best friend that. In the silence of Derek’s loft, behind the backs of the rest of the pack, Stiles had told Peter that it was a mistake to let Deucalion live. That somebody should have ended Deucalion just to be sure he wouldn’t become a threat again.

 

Peter had smiled a rare smile and said he liked the way Stiles’s mind worked, which probably should have rung the biggest warning bells ever, but a kid with ADHD didn’t exactly hear those kind of compliments often. It was like a drug. A psychopathic Peter Hale -shaped drug.

 

Creepy compliments aside, back then Stiles figured Derek’s uncle was just smiling like that because he was thinking of happy murder thoughts.

 

He really hadn’t expected Peter to go through with those thoughts. Mostly because Peter wasn’t even an official part of the pack, which made him an omega. Omegas were supposed to be weak, and Peter certainly played that card – along with his post-resurrection weakness one – often to get out of doing anything physical. When he even bothered to show up, that was.

 

The thumb is now rubbing against the pulse point on his sensitive throat, and Stiles comes out of his thoughts with an embarrassing noise that borders on indecent. He slaps at Peter’s hand.

 

“Personal space,” he says weakly, but Peter doesn’t move, cocking his head to one side and reminding Stiles ridiculously of an attentive dog. Waiting for his answer.

 

“It’s Deucalion. You killed Deucalion.”

 

 _And brought his heart to me_.

 

He wants to ask why, but suddenly it hits him. The intent way Peter looks at him, the way he carries himself like he really wants Stiles to return the looks, the way he keeps calling the heart a present.

 

Peter is not trying to make threats. Peter is trying to _impress_ Stiles, showing off his kill. The kill they sort of discussed together.

 

Stiles accidentally sent a sociopath after another sociopath, and he should feel bad because the others wanted to give Deucalion a second chance, but he can’t muster up any guilt and that strange heat at the pit of his stomach is back.

 

“You do remember,” Peter murmurs and his nostrils flare, his pupils dilated like he’s under the influence of something. Stiles wonders what it is that Peter smells and seems to like so much, and he’s acutely aware of the wolf’s body radiating heat between them.

 

“Yes, okay, yeah, but you do realize that it wasn’t a command for you to go and _do_ it, if I had that kind of power you’d be dead again too because I also told Derek to kill you a second time after you came back.”

 

Peter pauses and gives him an amused look. “Can’t imagine why you’d do that. My company is a joy, I think I proved that during all those long nights of research.”

 

And doesn’t that sound suggestive, Peter’s voice purring as if they’d done something more intimate than research together. Stiles won’t be distracted by Peter’s talent for double entendres. He won’t.

 

“Your so-called joyful company vanished for months without explanation, Peter. I thought somebody made you take a second dirt-nap,” he says and winces at his own hurt tone. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. Or at all.

 

Peter has that look in his eyes again and his hands are sliding down Stiles’s arms, grasping at his wrists and lifting them to pin them against the wall on either side of his head.

 

Stiles’s gaze flicks to the side and then to Peter again, uncertain if his pulse is rising due to apprehension or something else.

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Peter whispers and he’s leaning down, nudging Stiles’s head to the side before a hot mouth closes over the pulse on his throat.

 

Somebody is moaning and Stiles realizes it’s him, he’s moaning because Peter is sucking a mark on his throat, pressing his slick tongue to his pulse and mouthing at the pale skin between pulling pressure that both _hurts_ and feels so good.

 

“Peter—!”

 

He isn’t sure how he wants to continue after the high-pitched near-squeak of the werewolf’s name. Stop? More? What in hell’s name? Peter’s mouth moves, hot and trailing saliva between sucking, open-mouthed bites, and Stiles’s thoughts fly out the window when the sensation goes straight from his neck to his cock.

 

Peter can probably smell the arousal because he growls and fucking nips once with fangs, stinging but not breaking skin. The heat of _want_ inside Stiles battles with slight fear because Peter is an alpha again and offered him the bite once.

 

As if sensing Stiles’s conflicted thoughts, and maybe his stupid werewolf super-sniffer can, Peter pulls back from what has to be the beginning of a spectacular hickey. His eyes are glowing red again and he’s showing a hint of fang, but he’s visibly holding himself under control.

 

“Such lovely skin,” Peter murmurs absently, releasing one wrist to turn Stiles’s head to the side by the chin. “You bruise magnificently.”

 

Stiles _feels_ himself go red. Trust Peter to say things that were both creepy and sexy at the same time. “Pretty sure _serial killers_ compliment people on their skin. Oh wait, you _are_ a serial killer.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Peter answers in a tone that could either be teasing or utterly remorseless. Probably both. Stiles is about to snort, but then Peter’s hands move, wandering along Stiles’s arms and down his sides, feeling him through his clothes in no subtle manner.

 

“There’s something I want from you, Stiles.”

 

And those words make Stiles’s mouth go dry, because there are so many ways this could go, so many bad ways and maybe some good but ultimately still bad ways too. He knows what his cock is hoping to hear, because it twitches eagerly when Peter’s thumbs brush against his hips just above his belt.

 

“Yeah?” He’s wetting his lips, he can’t help it, it’s a nervous tic that instantly attracts Peter’s gaze to the motion. “A restraining order?”

 

Peter’s cocky grin looks a little terrifying with the fangs. He leans in and … and fucking _nuzzles_ his cheek against the side of Stiles’s throat, right over where he had bruised it with his mouth. Stiles shivers and doesn’t know what to do with the werewolf’s casually possessive touches. He _wants_ , irrationally and dangerously, realizes he wanted long before Peter went missing.

 

Peter halts Stiles’s thoughts with his next words. “Become my emissary.”

 

And there goes the world again, tilting over onto its head because nothing makes sense. Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it, because _what?_ At first he’s certain that this really is a very elaborate prank after all, but when Peter pulls back to look at him again, the wolf has a serious, intense expression on his face.

 

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to process through shock this time so maybe he’s starting to get used to living in bizarro-land. He squints at Peter suspiciously.

 

“If this is another power play on your part, it’s a really bad one. I’m no Zatanna, not even close.”

 

Peter makes a slight ‘tsk’ -noise of amusement. “No? You’d look so fetching in the outfit.”

 

Stiles hadn’t expected Peter to get that one, but then again it continued the night’s theme of things trying to send him to an early grave via shock-induced heart attacks.

 

Peter is staring at him like he’s some delicious dessert. When Stiles speaks again, his voice is a little shaky but indignant. “No, but really, what the hell, Peter? Is that—“ He gapes at the werewolf as thoughts race through his mind, and he makes a flailing gesture between the two of them.

 

“Is _that_ what this is? You’re—you’re all gropey because you want me to be your personal witch!”

 

He realizes too late what ‘witch’ rhymes with and judging by Peter’s smugly amused look, the wolf is thinking of the same unfortunate wordplay.

 

“I’m willing to trade sexual favors if it will get you to say yes,” Peter purrs and that should not make Stiles’s half hard erection start paying attention again because Peter’s motivations are shady as fuck.

 

“ _God_ , do you even listen to yourself,” Stiles gripes and tries to flatten himself against the wall in an effort to keep his obvious hardness from pressing against Peter’s thigh. “It’s like you’re taking lines from a cheap supervillain manual. I’m not going to follow you around and break you out of mountain ash circles just because you gave me head.”

 

It was probably the wrong thing to say – or exactly the right thing – because Peter’s eyes brighten gleefully. “Decide that after I give you head,” he says before he places his hands on Stiles’s rear and _lifts_ him off the floor.

 

“Whoa, hey—“ Stiles starts, but then he’s turned around and walked over to the couch, dropped onto it none too gently.

 

 When he looks up, his space is full of Peter as the werewolf leans over him, nostrils flaring and head jerking slightly as he scents the air. _Arousal_ , Stiles thinks in a daze, _he can smell it on me and he **likes** it_.

 

Stiles half expects to get ravished without further ado because Peter’s eyes are glowing again and he’s giving off serious hungry predator vibes, but Peter surprises him with a display of restraint. He slowly traces warm fingers over Stiles’s cheek, then down his throat, touch clawless and soft.

 

“Let me persuade you, Stiles,” he says in a voice that’s an octave lower, the rumble of a distant storm in his chest.

 

Stiles’s heart is trying to pound right out of his chest and wow that isn’t a thought he wants to have with the box still in the room, but he isn’t afraid. He’s excited, turned on, probably attracted to the danger in a way that might need therapy if— _when_ things go south.

 

Slowly, aware of the implications of his action to a werewolf, he tilts his head back to bare the line of his throat to Peter’s hungry gaze. He doesn’t look away though, he wants to watch Peter’s reaction, wants to make sure the wolf doesn’t think he’s giving absolute surrender.

 

Peter draws breath so quickly it turns into a hiss and his face contorts slightly, a hint of sharper cheekbones and inhuman brow there and then gone. Peter’s mouth is on Stiles’s throat again and he should probably be worried, but all he feels is a thrill when Peter touches his fangs to the bruises.

 

There’s no bite, Peter merely maintains teeth to throat contact for a moment before moving down to mouth at Stiles’s collarbone. Peter’s hands are wandering under Stiles’s shirt, dragging it up while Peter himself settles between Stiles’s legs on his knees.

 

Stiles’s brief laugh of disbelief at the situation quickly turns into a moan as Peter dips his head to lave his tongue over a hardening nipple. The next few moments are full of hot tongue and wandering hands as Peter coaxes sounds out of Stiles, tracking the scattered moles and sucking a mark into pale skin here and there.

 

It starts to feel like delicious torture quickly, especially when Peter finally unbuckles Stiles’s belt and drags his pants downwards, but then he stops to nip at a hip bone instead of _getting on with it_.

 

“Come _on_ ,” Stiles groans and thumps his head against the couch, embarrassment at war with arousal. “If you don’t touch my freaking cock already I’m gonna—“

 

He doesn’t get to finish the threat he had no idea how to finish anyway. Peter ruins a good pair of pants by ripping the front open with a single jerk, and Stiles really wants to say something about that, but then Peter has his cock out of his underwear and is palming it.

 

Stiles’s words turn into a groan and his hips jerk up, pushing his hard length through Peter’s grip. Peter lets him repeat the motion, spreading a bead of pre-come from the head of Stiles’s cock with his thumb, scenting the air.

 

Stiles can’t help but stare as Peter lowers his head, licking a stripe up the underside of the hard cock presented to him. He’s tasting Stiles with slow licks, circling around the head before lapping up the gathering stickiness from the tip.

 

Their eyes meet and Stiles looks away first with red cheeks. It’s way too intense to maintain eye contact with _Peter Hale_ who has his stupid smirking face so close to Stiles’s throbbing erection that he can feel every puff of exhaled breath against it.

 

Just when Stiles thinks that he might have to voice his frustration again, the slick warmth of Peter’s mouth surrounds his cock and Stiles momentarily forgets to breathe.

 

“Fuck,” he whispers and doesn’t know whether to stay still or give in to the urge to squirm. Peter solves the issue for him by holding him in place with a hand on his hip, the werewolf’s free hand leisurely palming over Stiles’s balls.

 

Of course sucking cock is something Peter Hale excels at, using just the right amount of pressure, movement, and tongue to reduce Stiles into a panting mess that can’t think past the pleasure. He thinks he might come embarrassingly quickly, but every time he feels the hint of a tightening in his balls, Peter eases off and toys with him with just his tongue long enough for the building pressure to ebb back to something less immediate.

 

After the third time of that, Stiles feels like he might scream and his brain-to-mouth filter is long gone. “Peter, _fuck_ , come on don’t fucking tease, l-let me come, let—”

 

Peter’s fangs scrape over the jut of Stiles’s hip and he briefly noses into the sweaty hair above his reddened, jutting cock, gleaming slick from Peter’s saliva. “Think you know the magic word, Stiles.”

 

 _Arrogant goddamn **prick** , _Stiles thinks and oh shit the words actually came out between his hard intakes of breath because Peter laughs. It’s a throaty noise that makes Stiles’s neglected cock twitch and throb.

 

“Please, _please,_ is that what you want to hear you supreme _asshole_ —“

 

Stiles’s snarl gets swallowed by a cry at the same time as Peter swallows down his cock.

 

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh _god_. Peter has no gag reflex and it’s every bit as amazing as Stiles imagined from the day he heard people could do that. His fingers are in Peter’s hair and he’s trembling, hips trying to jerk up to fuck his cock into the clutch of Peter’s throat because in his current state he thinks Peter murdering him for trying to choke him might totally be worth it.

 

It’s probably a good thing that Peter doesn’t let him, gentling Stiles’s uncoordinated twitches and trembling with a firm grip on his hips, werewolf grip firm like he’s made of iron.

 

Not iron though, because Peter’s mouth and throat are soft and hot and Stiles is probably babbling something awfully embarrassing because he wants to come so badly his heart might explode soon.

 

Peter moves up, draws in breath, and then he goes down again in a controlled motion, tongue pressed to the underside of Stiles’s hard length and throat swallowing against it as it slides deep.

 

Then the grip on Stiles’s hips is gone and he jerks to finish the motion Peter started, and then he’s coming so hard his entire world whites out. He thinks he sees sparks, he isn’t sure, and he can’t hear anything past his own harsh breathing.

 

Vaguely, Stiles feels Peter pull away after a moment. He finds himself taut as a drawn bow but his muscles are starting to tremble something fierce so he slumps into the couch slowly. He’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat and he blinks at the ceiling, at the quiet Christmas lights in his peripheral vision.

 

Peter’s figure blocks Stiles’s hazy line of vision and then Peter’s lips press against his in an urgent kiss, ravaging his mouth as Peter’s tongue plunges in to share a slightly salty taste. He’s tasting himself in Peter’s mouth and instead of finding himself grossed out, he’s captivated by a heated emotion he can’t classify. It’s something intimate in a way that might freak him later.

 

Peter breaks the kiss and growls, one hand moving restlessly over Stiles’s chest, up and down with urgency. The other hand is—okay, Stiles’s mind catches up to the sight of Peter jerking off while leaning over him.

 

A small part of him wonders if he should maybe help, but the rest of him is caught watching because he can see Peter’s control unravel. The wolf’s eyes are glowing and his face is shifting in and out of what Stiles calls a game face in his head, and there’s this growl escaping Peter that sounds octaves deeper than his usual voice.

 

It’s like somebody combined a horror movie with porn, and if Stiles hadn’t just come so hard that his mind shattered, he’d probably be rock hard again.

 

Peter’s face ultimately settles into the fangier variation and the noise he makes when he comes sounds more like a barely suppressed howl than anything that could come out of a human throat. It drowns out the indignant noise Stiles makes as Peter paints his bare chest and abdomen with sticky streaks of milky white.

 

One hand slowly petting over Stiles’s hip, Peter slumps to rest his weird ridged forehead against Stiles’s shoulder. They do nothing but audibly draw breath for several minutes.

 

Stiles is the first to move because he might be feeling all liquified by the aftermath of pure pleasure, but he’s way too curious not to run a finger over Peter’s brow slowly.

 

“Your eyebrows are gone,” he says because he can’t help it, he has always wanted to laugh at Derek about that but was afraid it might make Derek start shoving him into things again.

 

Peter turns his head to give the offending finger a stinging nip. Stiles grunts in protest, but then he gets to watch Peter’s face as it shifts back to his human visage. The process is much less fluid than the way Derek does it, but as much as Stiles wants to ask why, he isn’t going to bring Derek up right now.

 

“Better?” Peter asks and lifts himself up to tuck himself back in his pants, looking so human it’s kind of unnerving after staring right at the beast. The only thing that betrays Peter’s nature is the way he looks at the sticky mess he left on Stiles.

 

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise and tries not to think about his potential newfound sexual interest in scary werewolf faces. He lifts his head to look down at himself instead and groans a bit. “Ugh, did you have to? I swear, if I have to scrub any off this couch…”

 

Of course Peter ignores the complaint, that isn’t surprising, but the way he takes Stiles’s hand and lifts it to kiss his knuckles kind of is. Stiles has no clever comeback to that, so he blinks up at Peter owlishly.

 

“So. You’ve received head, perhaps you can answer my proposal now?”

 

Oh. _Right_. Stiles lets out a long sigh because Peter is too good at keeping his potentially evil goals in mind and while Stiles might feel stupidly sated, he isn’t about to blindly swear allegiance to Peter just to get more amazing head.

 

It is a little tempting. But no.

 

“You make a compelling argument … but if you’re really serious, I kinda need some time to think about it,” Stiles answers and he knows he isn’t just deflecting. He really _is_ thinking about Peter’s offer, as insane as that is.

 

Stiles’s fingers twitch nervously because he half expects Peter to get angry now, and if that happens he’s so out. He isn’t getting bullied into anything, Peter has to prove that he’ll do better than he did with his first shot at alphahood.

 

Peter doesn’t get angry, he doesn’t even frown. In fact, if anything, he looks particularly pleased by Stiles’s answer and leans in to place another kiss on his lips.

 

“Of course. I look forward to presenting more arguments in my favor until you’re ready to decide.”

 

There’s promise in Peter’s tone that makes Stiles’s insides feel funny and his spent cock twitch in consideration of renewing interest. His mind is helpfully skipping ahead, imagining other things Peter could do to persuade him, things involving many different positions and more naked skin than he got to see tonight.

 

“You’re such a creeper,” he grouses and rolls his eyes, but he knows Peter can smell the interest on him.

 

“Only for you, Stiles,” Peter responds cheerfully, and after another kiss that’s hot as a brand, he straightens to give his clothes and hair a methodical once over. Stiles watches, hesitating, but he thinks it’s way too early to want Peter to stay. Stiles needs space to think and Peter needs to be gone before his dad gets home.

 

Something occurs to him suddenly and he calls out just as Peter turns around to go, “How  did you even kill him? You were an omega.”

 

Peter stops and turns his head enough for Stiles to catch sight of the werewolf’s fanged smirk. “I’ll tell you over dinner sometime,” he says and heads for the front door.

 

“That is _not_ a conversation I want to have while eating—hey! Don’t leave your creepy trophy here, dad’s gonna freak if I have to explain it to him!” Stiles yells after Peter, dragging himself up to glare over the couch’s backrest.

 

He catches a glimpse of glowing red eyes at the door, Peter’s form hidden by shadows. “You’ll figure something out, Stiles. You’re a clever boy.”

 

And with that, the werewolf is gone. Stiles groans and lets himself fall back down with a soft thump. Ten minutes. He’s giving himself ten minutes of undisturbed, unrepentant afterglow, and then he’ll clean up and start wondering what to do about the impending clusterfuck Peter’s return will cause.

**Author's Note:**

> I killed off Deucalion off-screen, I'm sorry. *cringe* I felt bad. But somebody had to die in the making of this fic, so yeah. This is my first published piece of fanfiction in ages, so I'll happily accept any encouraging words should people feel inclined. I've quite a few unfinished plot bunnies in the works.


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